


Laugh, I Nearly Died

by CoffeeAndTin



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Fevers, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sickness, Tumblr Prompts, Werewolf, painful transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-19 09:29:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16531913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndTin/pseuds/CoffeeAndTin
Summary: A collection for prompt fills for my Bad Things Happen Bingo card.





	1. And the Autumn Moon is Bright

**Author's Note:**

> Vasquez experiences his first transformation.

Vasquez considered that his thermostat must be broken. The weather had changed. The temperature had dropped. No, it was him. Though he would remain in denial about whatever was ailing him, for as long as he could, he was too warm.  
He didn’t have to be on anyone’s clock that day; which was good. In addition to being too hot, he felt his temper flare easily. He threatened violence against a window after it stuck when he tried to open it; and he’d accomplished nothing, except for prowling the confines of the house he’d been renting.  
He ached all over.  
Vasquez wandered to the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator door. It was the second time he’d done this, and all of the contents therein were equally unappetizing as they’d been in the first place. In fact, the idea of eating was nauseating. He shut the fridge door a little harder than was necessary, and scrubbed a hand over his face. He grimaced in distaste at the sheen of perspiration that had gathered there. He decided a shower would be the best course of action, then shambled to the bathroom.  
Vasquez undressed slowly, and left his clothes on the floor. He avoided catching sight of himself in the mirror. He was weary of seeing the way his flesh had been scored the previous month. The teeth and claw marks had fully closed, but the wounds were still pink. Still tender. He wondered if he was suffering some sort of latent fever from the incident. He’d never felt a fever like this, though; and as he set one foot in the shower he choked back morbid laughter at the thought he’d possibly become rabid.  
Seeking to cool his flesh, and numb his pain, he kept the water as cold as he could stand. Whatever relief he managed was short lived. By the time he pulled on a fresh pair of shorts and slumped into his recliner, he was warmer than he had been, and the ache in his body had grown in intensity. He checked his phone. No messages, or missed calls. He proceeded to shift in his chair, in search of a position that would provide him some comfort. There was none to be had, and so he slouched further as he flipped through TV channels, with the sound muted. The season dictated horror lineups, and Vasquez felt his mood continue to decline with the inevitable appearance of fanged monstrosities. He landed on a station featuring an old, black and white spy show.  
He woke, aware that a sound had died in his throat. He was awash in the pale flicker of the television’s light. The spy show had become an equally monochrome western. And the pain was worse.  
Vasquez’s stomach rolled, and adrenaline jolted him from his chair. The only thing he was aware of beyond the way his gorge rose, was the heavy impact of his footsteps on the floor. He fell in front of the toilet and wretched. Despite the burn of acid and the taste of bile, he consoled himself by thinking that at least he hadn’t eaten anything. He spat into the toilet before standing, and resting his arms on the sink. He rinsed his mouth out, and as he turned off the fawcett, he gripped it with such force that his knuckles blanched. He screwed his eyes shut, and he could see starbursts behind his eyelids. It was as though fissures had opened within his skull.  
He anchored himself like that until the pain began to abate, and he felt something trickle from his nose, down to his upper lip. With reluctance, he looked in the mirror, where he saw his misery reflected back at him. He thought that maybe he should have felt more distress at the sight of the blood, but it was his eyes that made his breath catch. They were sunken and bloodshot. An image of the thing that bit him tore its way to the forefront of his mind. He recalled its hot, scarlet eyes and flashes of fur, pale as the moon itself. He swallowed hard when he remembered the way his flesh had burst, and torn between its fangs, and beneath its claws. A wave of dizziness dispelled the memories, and he braced himself against the sink again. His world became too large, and too small in the same instant.  
Vasquez took slow, deep breaths, trying to collect himself as his limbs trembled.  
He needed to get himself help.  
He washed the blood from his face and turned to leave the bathroom.  
_It was just a wolf. Justawolfjustawolfjustawolf._  
There was an insistent scrabbling in the back of his mind that told him he knew better. Terror hadn’t distorted the animal’s dimensions. It had been too big; too _wrong_.  
Pain gripped him, and he was surprised by the sharp cry he let out. His shoulder hit the door frame; it was the only reason he remained upright. A new swelling of heat spread over him. It was accompanied by a vicious itching and the wild notion that if he peeled back his flesh, he would find an inhuman pelt beneath it. Even if he’d had the strength, that thought alone was enough to keep him from scratching.  
He stumbled his way to the living room. He was forced to rest against one wall, or the other. He caught sight of his phone, sitting not fifteen feet away, on an end table. He hefted himself from his resting place and took three steps before searing agony tore through him. He collapsed, and hit the floor hard. He turned onto his side, and as he tried to breathe around the pain, he realized with dour insight, that he wasn’t sure who he was going to call, anyway.  
His body seemed intent on constricting itself, and his head was a jumble of prayers, curses, and bargaining. He couldn’t bring himself to care, or be embarrassed by the strangled yelp he let out when his knuckles became more pronounced, and his fingers became longer, thicker. His nails grew, too. They curved into jagged points, until they were unrecognizable as his own. Unrecognizable as human.  
_And Jesus Christ, the hair!_ It spiked upward and swept over him; thick, and dark.  
His mind spun and his body grew. He watched with grim fascination as his arms became longer, and more sinewy. He knew if he looked at his legs and feet, he would see them undergoing a similar change. The distances between all of his joints were lengthening.  
Just like that thing!  
Dread roiled up with the electric agony of abused nerve bundles. He let go of the hope that his mind had fractured. He had a concept of what he was becoming. He’d seen enough movies, and heard too many legends not to. It was the misfortune of experiencing rebirth before death.  
His gums smarted hatefully, and he tasted blood. His tongue passed over his teeth. It was no surprise that they, too, had become longer and sharper. How much longer until his mouth ran out of room for them?  
As though his body were responding to the unasked question, the structures of his brow, mouth, jaw and nose became broader as they crushed themselves outward, into new, impossible shapes. Pressure and sensation gave the impression of sickening, crunching sounds the rush of blood in his ears didn’t manage to drown out.  
He wanted to weep, and scream, and escape the body that had become collection of shifting meat and gristle. Vasquez’s ribs, shoulders, and spine expanded, and he wailed.  
That sound was the final evidence that everything about him, within and without, was changing. The anguish in his voice wasn’t human.  
Not just.  
It was guttural and harsh; familiar and foreign in the same note.  
His body -if it was still his body at all -finished falling into place, like tumblers in a lock. The spasms in his muscles receded in intensity, and his tongue lolled as he panted. The rest of the world beyond that room -smells, and tastes, and sounds -began to flood in.


	2. Sniffles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josh is sick, and Jack takes care of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Fevers

Jack hauled more firewood into his cabin, happy to be out of the cold. He brought the wood over to the fireplace and made quick work of unburdening himself of the weight. He’d left Josh asleep in a bed, but he found him in a chair by the fire. Josh watched him with glassy eyes. There was no sly glint that implied he knew something everyone else didn’t; no grin. Jack spared Josh a chagrined sigh, but he didn’t seem to notice. Jack supposed it was a small miracle he’d made it from one room to the other under his own strength.

“‘m gold,” Josh murmured as though it served as a an explanation for why he’d left his bed.

Jack refrained from scolding Josh for having moved. He was positive Josh meant to say "cold," and so he nodded before stoking the fire and going to retrieve another cover. The bear pelt he returned with had been a particularly proud trophy. When he draped it over Josh, Jack saw a shadow of a smile on his face.

Jack stood and began to ask how Josh was feeling, but he saw that he'd fallen back to sleep.

_Probably for the best,_ Jack thought. He hoped unconsciousness provided him some relief from the fever that had been plaguing him. He hazarded placing the back of his hand on Josh’s forehead. Still too warm. Whatever ailed him had hit him fast. Luckily, they'd only been half a day's ride from Jack's cabin.

Jack worked, and kept a watchful eye as Josh dozed. He brewed a concoction of herbs that would help bring Josh’s fever down. Very much aware that he was in danger of becoming a mother hen, Jack pressed a hand to Josh's shoulder to rouse him.

“This’ll help,” Jack said as he held the cup out.

Josh looked blearily from the cup to Jack before dipping his head and wriggling his arms out from beneath his cocoon of blankets in order to accept the drought. Jack remained close, lest Josh drop it. Josh raised it to his lips and drank. He coughed; and though Jack hovered, prepared to help in whatever way he could, the bout was brief. 

“This is awful,” Josh said once he recovered.

“It is,” Jack acknowledged, as he took note of the way Josh's voice was more nasal than it should have been. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

Josh gave a little hitch of his shoulders before lifting the cup to his lips and sipping. He winced and groaned. It was childish, but good-natured. It was good to hear that he was returning to himself. With any luck, the rebound would be as abrupt as the onset.

“You gum up with this yourselv?” Josh’s nose crinkled as he asked.

Jack shook his head from side to side.

“My wife,” he said, after a moment. His gaze became a little distant.

Josh managed to look sheepish as he tipped the cup up again.

“Thangs, Jag,” Josh said, still unable to pronounce the harder edges of words.

Jack nodded.

"You just rest," he said as he remembered his wife’s careful instruction, and the grace and skill of her hands as she’d prepared the herbs.

Jack didn’t realize how weary he was until he sank into his chair across from Josh. There was scarcely an inch of his cabin that didn’t have some memory of his family etched into it.

He wondered how much of the previous night Josh remembered.

 

* * *

 

A loud thud from the bedroom drew Jack’s immediate concern and attention. He closed the distance between rooms, bringing with him the mixture he'd made. He found Josh on the floor. One of his legs was bent at an angle, still caught in a blanket. His back was against the bed. Josh was hollow-eyed and breathing raggedly. It put Jack in mind of every animal he'd ever seen caught in a snare.

He set the tea down.

“Hey,” Jack said as he crouched in front of Josh and made to put his hands under his arms so he could help lift him back up.

Before he could, Josh swung an arm at him. Jack let him. The motion had been uncoordinated and weak, and the impact was easily absorbed. Jack was able to leverage himself so that he could lift Josh, his back against his chest. The task was made more difficult by the way Josh began to struggle.

“It’s alright,” Jack said, keeping his grip firm, but not oppressive. “It’s alright.”

Though the sounds Josh made lacked the form to truly be considered words, their meaning was not difficult to discern. He was scared; lost in his own mind. Jack didn’t envy Josh his distress. What memory caused it? War? Rose Creek? Some twisted combination thereof? He grimaced at the amount of heat that was rolling off of Josh.

“Shh,” he said as Josh continued to writhe and tremble with the effects of his illness. Sweat darkened his russet hair. “Don’t need you hurtin’ yourself, now. You’re safe.”

Josh remained uncooperative, but Jack was steadfast. He knew it wasn’t the first time Josh had been through something like this; though, God willing, it would be the last. Josh’s healing after Rose Creek had taken time, and he’d suffered through more than his fair share of infection and fevers. Jack had been in no condition to help then; but he could recall, with unfortunate clarity, the way Josh had cried out in his delirium. Jack remembered lying in his own sick bed, certain that each heart-wrenching sound he’d heard would be the last Josh ever made.

Jack pushed the memory aside, and continued shushing him, just like he’d done when his own children had fallen ill. That had been so many years ago. He offered quiet assuagements until Josh sagged in his grasp; the little energy he’d had, depleted. Jack lowered him onto the bed. He was relieved to see recognition flicker over Josh's features, but there was also embarrassment there.

"It's alright," Jack assured him.

Josh frowned, and shifted his head on the pillow. He allowed Jack to lift his feet back onto the bed. Before Jack could rearrange the blankets, a coughing fit struck Josh. He curled his limbs tighter as his body shook with the force. He stopped coughing long enough to draw in several rattling breaths, but the respite was short-lived. Josh screwed his eyes shut. He looked as though he were going to curl into himself as he tried to contain the coughing that wracked his body. Jack winced. He knew Josh's chest and ribs must have been smarting terribly. 

After a brief hesitation, Jack put one broad palm on Josh’s back. He kept up a steady monologue of nonsense as he alternated between rubbing circles and patting. It was strange, those simple, little comforts. Josh generally didn’t seek out consolation for his hurts; he would shrug them off, or make a joke. Jack hoped the familial gesture wasn’t overstepping the bounds of whatever comfort Josh would accept.

Josh’s coughing ceased, and Jack squeezed his shoulder before retrieving the forgotten cup of tea. Jack decided to attempt to get him to drink it.

Josh didn’t fight it, but it took patience. Josh’s eyes were open, and while they were no longer wild, they weren't entirely lucid. When the brew dribbled onto Josh’s chin, and neck, Jack dutifully dabbed it away. After the tea was gone Jack got a fresh cloth, and cleaned away the sweat covering Josh’s face.

Josh rolled onto his side and Jack pulled the covers back over him. He waited for Josh’s breathing to deepen.

“Sleep tight,” Jack said in his quiet tenor, before stepping out of the room.

* * *

 

“You never told me what your wife was like,” Josh said.

That brought Jack back to the present. Josh looked at him; curious, but not expectant. His hair was no longer darkened with sweat. It was, however, flat in some places, and jutting at odd angles in others. It made Josh look even younger.

Jack leaned back in his chair.

_Maybe another time,_ he nearly said. But as Josh took another sip, Jack remembered a time his wife had made the same thing for him. He started by telling Josh her name. How long had it been since he’d said it aloud?

He told him about her long, black hair, how they'd met, and what a wonderful mother she'd been. Jack shared all the good, and somehow it still didn't seem to do justice to her memory. He stopped shy of telling Josh about the sound of her laugh, about her fears, and hopes. Those memories he kept to himself.

Josh was smiling as he nodded off. 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Painful Transformation


End file.
